


To Quote Scar From The Lion King

by navree



Category: Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US), Real News RPF
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Guilt, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navree/pseuds/navree
Summary: He should tell her to go. He's not the one who wants to see her, after all. And definitely not the one who needs to. Right?Jake wakes up one day and there's an echo in his house and his head.





	To Quote Scar From The Lion King

**Author's Note:**

> blame house m.d. because jake is house and jim is wilson and liz is amber and look at that storyline and the parallels i'm just writing what god wants  
> as always, comments (either positive or constructive) are always welcome and much appreciated!

Jake never really remembers his nightmares. He knows he has them, because he wakes up with a lump of fear in his throat and short breath and a desire to curl in and burrow himself under the blankets. But he almost never remembers them. They disappear, float up and out of his mind like steam. Which is find, because he doesn't particularly want to remember nightmares. 

He wakes up from some unknown fear and realizes that it's three in the morning when he glances at his phone. Slowly, carefully, he eases himself out of bed and down into the kitchen, not wanting to wake Jen or the kids. Jake flicks on the light above the sink for illumination, and squints against the brightness of the fridge when he opens it. 

There's basically nothing in terms of midnight snack food except a banana. Which wouldn't have been his first choice, or even his fifth choice. But, when life gives you lemons. Or in this case, bananas. 

When Jake closes the fridge door, there's someone leaning casually behind it. 

"Not to be controversial, but I don't particularly like bananas." He leaps about a foot in the air with a sharp _GAH!_ sound. "Oh I am _not_ in a minority here. They've got an awful texture and a subpar taste and banana bread is a crime against nature." For a wild moment, he contemplates running out the door, or upstairs, or to the nearest phone to dial 9-1-1 and yell about an intruder in his home, pontificating about bananas.

But then he takes a closer look. And there's not a lot of light but he sees dark jeans and a white top on a beautiful girl with long blond hair. She has manicured nails and she's supposed to be dead. 

"What the fuck?" His voice is shaking. Why is his voice shaking? He's dreaming, he has to be. Ghosts don't exist, the Rapture is nonsense, and Liz has been dead for months now. So she can't exactly have snuck into his home to gripe about her apparent issues with bananas. Issues he shares, oddly enough. 

"Jake, watch your language, you have young children asleep upstairs." Liz Landers admonishing him for an apparent lapse in parenting is a joke. She's in her twenties, she doesn't even have kids, what does she know? 

 _She **was** in her twenties_ , a voice reminds him. _She **didn't** even have kids. _

"Answer the question." Liz peels herself off where she's leaning. 

"The only question you asked at all was what the fuck," she reminds him. "I can do you one better: why the fuck?" 

"Don't paraphrase  _Infinity War_ to me," he snaps. "What are you doing here?" She shrugs, walks around a bit. She's wearing boots with heels, and they should be making noise on his floor, but her footfalls are silent. Like sock-clad feet on a rug.

"That's a big question." She's talking like a panelist who wants to avoid answering one of his questions. He also talks like that sometimes. "But who says there has to be a why? Can't I just pop around for a visit?"

This has to be one of the weirdest dreams he's had in a long time. Not that he remembers much of his dreams, but he has a feeling this one is going to stay with him. It's so bizarre. So out of the blue. And it does hit a dull ache under his breastbone, like homesickness. He's not homesick for Liz though, she's not a place. 

_She **wasn't** a place. _

"OK, I'm going to eat, and I'm going to wake up eventually, and you'll stop fucking around and leave me be." Liz smiles at him, indulging, like he said something amusing. "Jesus Christ." 

She doesn't respond, she just puts a finger to her lips and shushes him. Not a moment too soon, because he turns around and there's someone in the kitchen with him. 

"Jake?" Jen's blinking at him sleepily in the dark. "What-"

"Nothing." He knows how it must look, him alone in his kitchen with a banana in the wee hours of the morning. "Just woke up and was hungry is all." And seemingly talking to himself. Jen nods and pads upstairs. When Jake turns, Liz is staring after her, arms folded and an odd expression on her face.

"Based on your type, it's mildly surprising you and I weren't ever more of a thing." Jen's probably still awake, so he doesn't respond.

 

 

 

"Why were you up so late last night?" Jake freezes in the middle of knotting his tie. 

He woke up with his blaring alarm the next morning, scrolled through Twitter, and went through the motions of getting the kids ready for school and himself ready for work. His bizarre encounter in the kitchen was a weird dream, a dream that remained vividly in his head, which was a rarity. But still, a dream nonetheless. 

But he's not dreaming now, and Jen is talking about it. Like it was real, like it happened. 

It did happen. 

"Just woke up," Jake says casually, finishing his tie before meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Couldn't fall back asleep, went to grab a bite." Jen stands to slip into her shoes. Behind her, apparently, was Liz, sitting cross legged on his fucking bed. She's holding her ankles like she's doing yoga, or like she's a child. 

"You were eating a banana," Jen tells him. "You hate bananas." In the mirror, he sees Liz nod her head appreciatively. Jake's answer is to shrug, because he doesn't really have an answer. Jen gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll take them to school today because you had a bad night, but you're taking them tomorrow." He smiles, leans back to give his wife a kiss, even if it's just a peck. 

"Love you." He catches a flash of Liz rolling her pretty eyes. Like she doesn't believe him, or thinks that he's talking out of his ass.

"Love you too." And when his wife leaves, his boyfriend's dead girlfriend follows her out, for some reason, leaving him alone in shirtsleeves with dark circles under his eyes. 

 

 

 

He's on set when she shows up again. Jake half expects her to be perched on the desk or the camera or something. No, she's just standing, and apparently judging him. 

It's not like he's _flirting_ with Kristin. They're just talking, exchanging notes, going over last minute touches on the script. It's not flirting. It's just casual and friendly banter, that may or may not lead to him bending her over his desk after the program. But it's not flirting. At least, that's what he'd say to Liz, whose eyebrows are at her hairline at the moment. 

She's making a sawing motion across her neck too, the universal sign for someone to stop what they're doing. If he could, he'd flip her off. Instead, he touches Kristin's arm lightly, tells her he'll talk to her later. 

There's a slight pink tinge to her cheeks as he and Liz watch her walk away. 

"You are such an ass." She says it without preamble. In his memories of Liz, Jake can't ever remember her being this blunt with him. To be fair, they didn't really talk a lot. Their friendship wasn't something Jake was even sure he could call a friendship, it was weird and twisting and it confused the Hell out of him. And then she was gone.

"I mean it, you honestly can be such a shitty person." Jake ignores her because he can't really talk back. He doesn't even know what this is, and no one else is registering Elizabeth Landers, known to be deceased, walking about the halls of CNN. He wishes someone would, just so he could figure out what's going on. 

Is he insane? Developing some kind of late onset schizophrenia? Or do the undead truly roam the Earth? 

"This poor girl has a crush on you, and you're what, using her?" His fingers tighten around the pen he's holding, the tips turning white with pressure. "For sex? To make Jim jealous?" The sound of her saying his name jolts through his spine like an electric shock, and he might have spasmed a bit, he's unsure. "You do realize that's not going to work, right? You're breaking a heart just for the Hell of it."

"Stop talking." Jake grinds it out between gritted teeth, scrawling a last minute change on his script. He's not going to argue with something no one else can see, but he needs her to shut up. If for nothing else so that he can focus on his upcoming hour on the national stage. In the corner of his eye, he sees Liz lean her elbows against the desk, trying to meet his gaze, a lock of gold hair falling over her shoulder. She's beautiful. 

_She **was** beautiful. _

"Is that why you and Jim broke up last year? Because you're an unrepentant dick?" Jake's had enough.

He slams his palm against the desk, hard. Hard enough that it makes a loud sound that echoes around set. His hand is stinging when he runs his fingers through his hair, takes a breath, straightens himself. When he looks up, everyone's frozen, staring at him like he just started babbling nonsense like Steve Carell in that one part of _Bruce Almighty_. 

"Thought I saw a mosquito." After a moment of silence, probably to determine whether they should send him to HR to be evaluated for mental competency, they nod and mull about their business like nothing happened. But, seconds before Liz disappears into the crowd, she shoots him a look. It tells him that no one really bought that. 

 

 

 

She's waiting for Jake in his office when he's done, when he all but races in and closes the door shut with painstaking gentility, rather than slam it and make people think he's actually going insane. She's sitting in the chair opposite his desk, an ankle resting on her knee, arms draped over the side. He flings himself into his rolling chair.

"What are you doing?" Liz tilts her head quizzically, like a cat that's been told not to push something off the table. 

"Who says I'm doing anything?" she asks innocently. Jake rolls his eyes, refuses to surrender to his baser impulses and throw a pencil at her. Mostly because he's scared of what'll happen if he tries. Instead, he leans back and shrugs off his blazer. 

"You are doing something," he tells her. "You're being a bitch." It feels good to say, for some dark reason. Liz's mouth pops open, and the sound she makes is like a laugh and a scoff combined. 

"Didn't your mother ever teach you to show some respect for the dead?" Her tone is mocking, and probably not meant to be taken seriously, but Jake still feels like shrinking back in shame. She's right. She's dead, and he shouldn't be calling a dead girl a bitch. Especially not this particular dead girl. Who is still looking at him like she can see through him, which is very disconcerting. 

He doesn't like being scrutinized like this by people he knows. He doesn't like being seen. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, tapping his fingers against the desk. She shrugs. He knows that shrug. It's the _all is forgiven_ shrug. Which is such bullshit. Nothing is forgiven, not for him anyway. 

"That's what you want to know? What I'm doing?" No, not really. What she's doing is fairly obvious. She's haunting him. 

"I think I'd want to know why more than what," he admits quietly. Liz makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. For someone who's been so talkative, she doesn't have a response this time around. 

 

 

 

Jake orders Jen and the kids out of the kitchen once dinner is done, though he gives them each a quick kiss on the head **_(_** or in Jen's case, the cheek **_)_** when he does. 

"Conference call with some network higher ups," he explains, semi apologetic, a quirk in his lips. "Picture the entire kitchen as a giant Do Not Disturb sign." He closes the door, resists the urge to lock it so that he knows he's totally alone. 

Except that he's not alone. 

Liz has spent the better part of a half hour sitting on the counter, legs swinging idly. It's a cute image, and an oddly domestic one too. He can picture her, _them_ , in Jim's house, her sitting on his kitchen island while he cooks, or cleans up after dinner's done. Liz would sit on the island, would watch him, blond hair spilling down her back. 

Jim would be complaining about the White House, most likely, some uber liberal democratic tripe Jake's never been able to swallow, not even for his sake. Liz would listen, patient, while Jim rants about how much he loathes Sarah Huckabee Sanders these days. He would turn, eventually, stare at her with those liquid eyes framed by paintbrush lashes. 

"You know," Liz would say, faux pondering. "If you hate the gig so much, you could always try to get assigned to a different beat." Jim would tilt his head at her quizzically, like a confused puppy. She would already have a fond look in her eye. 

"What makes you think I hate being the White House correspondent?" he would ask. Liz's eyebrows would dart up to her hairline.

"Your entire rhetoric kinda makes you sound like you hate it." Jim would move forward, so that he's leaning against the island, hands flat on either side of her legs. Liz would drape her arms over his shoulders, manicured nails carding through the hair at the base of his neck. 

"Why would I hate it?" he would ask, voice affectionate. "We worked that beat together for more than a year." Liz would chuckle, drop her forehead against his as her eyes flutter shut. He wouldn't close his though, he would stare at her, enraptured, disbelieving that this girl he loves so much hasn't grown completely sick of him by now. He would think about what a miracle it is. 

She would open her eyes, pull back a bit, tilt her head. It would be a clear invitation: _kiss me_. And Jim would kiss her, soft and sweet, holding her close, and she would kiss him back as he would slide a leg between her two. They would part, and Jim would wrap his arms around her waist, press his face into the crook of her neck. Liz would have him pressed against her, and they would exchange sweet nothings, whispered in each other's ears. A soft eyed _I need you_ , a tender mouthed _I love you_. 

And then she would kiss him again, hands framing his face, and he would kiss her back as he slides a hand up her thigh. She would sigh into his mouth and pull him forward, towards her, into her, and the meal or the dishes would remain forgotten.

"The dishes?" It's Liz's voice now that snaps him out of his hypothetical fantasy. For a wild moment, Jake wonders if she can read his mind. But she's nodding her head towards the pile of dishes in the sink, the ones he said he would put in the dishwasher while on his "conference call". 

"You're not a ghost, are you?" Jake asks, turning on the faucet to rinse food and hopefully muffle his insane conversation. Liz shakes her head with a furrowed brow. 

"Ghosts aren't real, Jake." Another thing they agree on, then. Which only reinforces his current theory. "At least, I don't think they are. Maybe someone more spiritual does." 

 _His_ name hangs in the air like the elephant in the room. 

"So you're in my head." He says it matter of factly. He's been rehearsing it, just a bit, so he doesn't sound scared or like a crazy person. Because he's not crazy, he's not. He's just -

Hallucinating the dead 27 year old whose boyfriend he loves, while said boyfriend is probably never going to love again, and the people around him except him blame Jake for what happened. It's an unhealthy thing to do, yeah, but it's not crazy. 

"You're in my head," he repeats, just to get it out there. Liz's lips curve upwards in a smirk. 

"Sweetie, I _am_ your head." He hears nothing except the rushing sound of the water in the sink, and the blood leaving his face. 

 

 

 

She's not at synagogue, thank God. It would be so weird if she was, sitting next to him, close but not touching, invisible and fucking dead. But apparently hallucinations have limits, at least when it comes to worship.

Peter Alexander is here, though. And he's making it pretty obvious he wants to wring Jake's neck. Peter hates him. And he knows why Peter hates him. He's acting like Jim's self appointed proxy. Jim doesn't hate him, God knows why, or at least if he does he's very good at keeping it a secret. So it seems like he's ordained himself as the person to hate Jake for him. 

Fine. Let him. It's no skin off his back if Peter Alexander loathes him. He's Jim's friend, not Jake's. 

"Isn't rage supposed to make people look ugly?" The fact that Liz doesn't make any sound, even when walking behind him, visible only in his periphery as he makes his way to his car, means that she's constantly surprising him when she pops up. He's learning not to flinch, though he did almost kick Jen when he woke up one morning and she was sitting at the foot of his bed. 

"Because, Peter still looks like a Disney prince even when glowering at you." Jake glances at Peter. She's not wrong. "You know it's not just that he hates you, right?" He sighs, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. After tapping away at the screen like he's doing something very important, he presses it to his ear. 

"Enlighten me." If she's going to demand conversation in public, he's not about to start talking to the air like a lunatic. 

"He hates you because he blames you." It's like she's dumped ice water on his head. And her tone is particularly kind, she put far too much emphasis on hate and blame, like she's twisting a knife into his gut. "He thinks it's your fault." Jake doesn't have to ask what she means. 

He knows. 

"And he doesn't get why Jim doesn't blame you, because he thinks Jim really should." Jake shoves his phone into his pocket, picks up the pace. He's leaving her behind. "I don't think Peter's alone in thinking that, do you?" she calls out. He turns around just as someone walks in front of him, and when his field of vision is cleared, she's gone. 

 

 

 

Liz starts showing up everywhere. Work, home, his car, places in between. Everywhere he is, it's like she's there too, or about to be, flitting at the edges of his consciousness. 

He asks her why. She never gives him an answer. So she's basically useless and here to torment him. He should tell her to go. He's not the one who wants to see her, after all. And definitely not the one who needs to. Right? If Liz needs to go and be a constant and ghostly presence in someone's life, she should go haunt her boyfriend. 

But not Jake. Not Jake who indulges himself, makes conversation with her when no one's around, talks about everything and nothing. He even held the elevator for her, tonight, even though she's not real, she's a figment of his imagination. But he held the elevator for her. And she smiled sweetly at him and said thanks. 

"I always thought working late was a euphemism," she says, leaning her head back. It's almost midnight. "I never actually thought that people who texted their significant others to tell them they're working late were actually, you know." 

"Working late?" Liz shrugs. "Did no one you know ever work late?" 

"Well, any time Jim said it, I kind of assume he was with you and that you guys weren't working." Hearing her say his name isn't as much of a jolt as it was the first time, but still. And Jake hasn't been able to gather up the courage himself. It feels like knives stuck in his throat, and one time, he was on the Sit Room panel, where both Rahmeen and Wolf called him out on it, his inability to say Jim's name. 

"Well." He doesn't really have an answer. He wants to have one. "Not all the time." He could say more. He could say that Jim loves her, that it was probably Jake's fault more than anyone else's, he was the one who couldn't let Jim go. But he can't force the words out. 

The elevator dings as they get to the parking lot, and Liz gets out with him, walks him to his car. His footfalls echo in the emptiness. Her's do not. He feels tired. He wants to go home, curl up beside Jen and fall asleep, forget that he's seeing Liz everywhere, forget that it gives him a constant, sharp pain in his gut. 

Or maybe he's developing a stress ulcer. But that idea was debunked years ago, right? It's bacteria that causes them, not nerves. He gets out his car keys and tries not to wince at the sound unlocking the door makes. Liz is on the passenger side, and leans her elbows against the roof of the car. She's got a wicked smile on her face. 

"Hey." Her tone is casual, like when they would run into each other on occasion in the halls, back when she was - "Do you remember the last time we were in a car together?" Jake's veins are ice. 

Because he and Liz had some bizarre pseudo-friendship that generally involved some kind of drinking of alcohol in his office, the occasional banter, but it neither of them ever really thought of as an actual friendship. 

 

 

 

What happens is that she's driving him home, because his car is in the shop and they were both working late and he didn't want to wake up Jen to have her pick him up from work like a kid who stayed later after school than usual. It's a nice car ride, she puts on songs that remind him of his college years, Forever Young and Young Hearts and the like, and they make easy conversation. 

" _This_ is your _house_?" They've parked, and she leans forward to gape at his home. "You live in a mansion." Jake laughs, unbuckles his seatbelt. 

"I do not." He just makes more money than she does. Liz shakes her head, runs fingers through her blond hair. To his sensitive nose, it smells of citrus, oranges maybe. Her skin smells of some kind of Chanel perfume. He pictures a pale pink bottle, made of glass. 

"Keep telling yourself that." Jake shakes his head, undoes his tie slightly. 

"Not all of us live in small apartments with roommates, Landers," he reminds her. Liz actually swats him in the shoulder, too soft to make him actually feel any pain, but he still raises an eyebrow. 

"You do realize you don't need to keep up the Landers thing, right?" Her eyebrows arch. "Liz is perfectly acceptable." Jake hums. It feels weird. Intimate. Like they're actually friends. But if she already calls him Jake, and if she doesn't have a problem with it... 

"Liz." He's just trying it out, sounding it out in the dark. She's still got a slender hand on his shoulder, close to the lapel of his work blazer. And there's a thought beginning to form in his head, an awful thought, but Jim's in some red state for some rally, and Jake misses him, and he knows Liz misses him too. He can't read what's on her face, but her hand curls in the fabric under her fingers. 

He's the one who leans forward first, kisses her. Her lipstick is pink and tastes like lemonade. Liz kisses him back, threads her fingers through his hair, manages to maneuver her way out of her seatbelt as he yanks her closer, his hand disappearing into her skirt and her's traveling up his thigh.

It lacks any kind of finesse, but then she unzips his pants and they're both breathing heavily and he's been working her long enough that he feels her dripping on his hand and he's hard. Any thoughts of this is bad and he's right outside the house where his wife and kids are sleeping and the only thing they really have in common is that they both love the same man, it's all thrown out the window when she straddles him and he hikes up her skirt and she takes him inside her. 

Because she feels really good. 

Liz has a white knuckled grip on his shoulder, wrinkling his jacket to Hell, rocking down on him as he thrusts into her, rough and demanding, his hands pulling her closer, fingers tangled in her hair. If someone finds out, he'll say that he pretended she was Jen, they're the same build and they have the same coloring. But that's not true, because he's moaning _Liz, Liz, Liz_ in between kisses, as he nips along her jaw. And she's not saying anything, just gasping against his mouth, next to his ear, sounds too broken to untangle.

Jake buries his face in her neck, presses kisses along her throat, can taste her perfume and her sweat on his tongue. Their rhythm is hard and fast and desperate. He's not going to last long but he wants to get her off first, _needs_ to, and even though the angle's awkward and atrociously uncomfortable he somehow worms a hand between them, between her thighs again, and just presses hard. 

Liz shakes when she comes with a sharp cry, dangerously close to a sob, dropping her head against his shoulder, her grip on him a vice. Jake kisses her as he follows suit, shudders and moans into her mouth as his hips buck. And then it's over, and she's pulling off him, still panting, and he tucks himself back into his pants and stumbles out the car, probably looking like someone who just did exactly what he did, just fucked a girl twenty years his junior outside his family home while their shared lover is away.

In the present, Jake yanks open his car door and all but hurls himself into his seat, breathing heavily. He doesn't feel tired anymore. He feels electrified, like every nerve ending is on fire. He screws his eyes shut, breathes in through his nose. When he opens them, Liz is in the passenger seat, drumming her fingers against the dash. 

"Penny for your thoughts?" His breathing is loud. 

"I need you." He whispers it like some filthy admission. Liz rolls her head towards him. 

"Why do you need me?" she asks. "Why am I here?" Jake's head is pounding; he feels like he's about to explode. On impulse, he presses the heel of his palm against the steering wheel, right on the horn. The noise is sharp and blaring, like an air raid siren, blasting and echoing in the emptiness of the parking lot for a long minute. When he pulls his hand back, Liz is gone. 

Jake makes a broken sound and leans his forehead against the steering wheel. He stays there for a while. 

 

 

 

"Do you ever think about it?" She's lying on his couch, like he's Dr. Freud and she's a patient he's about to diagnose with hysteria. He's trying to work, twirling his pen in between his fingers. Apparently, Liz doesn't want him to work. "Come on, I know you do." She taps the side of her head with a knowing glance. 

"Do I ever think about what?" Jake shouldn't play this game, he shouldn't want to keep up these conversations. And yet, that's what he's been doing, for. How long has it been now? 

"About why you and Jim collapsed like a dying stare." That's an oddly poetic way of putting it. But it's how he thinks about it, in his head. It was something that happened on a cosmic, intergalactic scale. He and Jim were good together, and then they were just gone. 

"Yeah." He puts his pen down, looks at her. "Yeah, I think about it." Liz pushes herself up on her elbows and stares at him evenly, silently demanding more. "OK, I think about it a lot."

"That's better," she purrs. She sounds so smug, so satisfied. She should, shouldn't she? He and Jim parting ways opened the door for Jim to start spending more time with his beautiful young producer, for Jim to ask her out, for Jim to fall in love with her. His pain was her gain, quite literally. "And why do you think about it?" 

"Is there any reason why you're trying to torture me?" Liz purses her lips.

"Let's call this some time for introspection." God, he doesn't want to do introspection. He wants to do his work, or talk about literally anything else than the mess that was 2017 and how badly everything got all screwed up. "Because you did screw up, you know." 

"Did I?" His voice is acerbic. Liz nods.

"I think you relied on him too much." She doesn't sound judgmental. She just sounds like she's stating a fact. "You used him as support for everything and never bothered to figure out if he needed you the way you needed him." 

" _Don't_." It's not true. If Jim had come to him, if Jim had asked him. If Jim had told him that he was getting divorced, that he was giving up custody of his children, if Jim had told him anything at all, and hadn't walled himself up with seclusion and pain and acted like everything was fine. If Jim had let him know how fast things were going down hill, and hadn't told him he loved him in December. If Jim had wanted to open up to him, Jake would have been there. 

Jim didn't let him in. And that's not Jake's fault. How is he going to help someone who doesn't want to be helped?  How can he? 

"Introspection," Liz repeats sagely, closing her eyes and lying back down, like her work is done. "Try it some more. It'll do you wonders." 

 

 

 

He walks on set with Liz badgering him to at least stick to sleeping with person and stop being, in her words, a compulsive whore, only to find that Jim's right next door to guest host Sit Room. Jake stops dead in his tracks. For once, Liz does the exact same thing. 

He's avoided Jim like the plague since what happened. And he hasn't seen him at all since Liz showed up. He wouldn't know what to say. Hi Jim, remember that girl you loved who died? She's showing up all the time as a hallucination, totally normal. Yeah, that wouldn't really work, would it? 

Jim looks better. In the immediate aftermath, his eyes were often ringed with red, dark circles under them, pale and almost sick looking. It reminded him of how Jim looked when he and Sharon split, but amped up to an eleven. But he looks OK now. Not good, but better. Like he's moving out of the depression phase, into the acceptance one. 

Jake should go over. The studios are right next to each other, he should go over there, chat with him, say hi. Ask him how he's doing. 

It's like he's in a horror movie. He's willing his feet to move but they don't. He can't even force himself to walk a few steps over and as a grieving man how he can help him. 

"Hey." Amanda pokes his shoulder. Her brows are furrowed when he turns to look at her. "You OK? You look a little sick." Jake snaps himself out of it, shakes his head and gives her an easy smile. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit tired." Amanda's head tilt is clear: you sure? He nods. "Really, I'm good." Behind him, he hears Liz's acerbic laugh.

 

 

 

Jen and the kids are on vacation to see her parents, which means he's alone for the weekend. Which means normally he'd spend time with his dogs, relax, enjoy the peace and the quiet. 

Except he wakes up ridiculously early in the morning with tears dampening his pillow. And he can't remember what exactly he was dreaming about, but he remembers Jim, and he remembers Liz, and there's one crystal clear image, which is the smile Jim had on his face, the one he always got around her, like he was so happy he could barely contain himself. Jim always looked so fucking happy when he had her on his arm.

Jake kicks the covers off, balances his elbows on his knees and buries his head in his hands. Eventually, he stands with a groan and goes to the kitchen to get water. Winston and Clemmie pad behind him, dutiful and probably a bit worried, because they're dogs and they're one of the few living things that love him unconditionally. 

Liz is in the living room, sitting on the couch, watching the sky. It's still dark, but a bit lighter than pitch midnight. It must be around four in the morning, he hasn't checked. 

"Why are you here?" he demands. Liz blinks at him. 

"Good question." Her hand drums on her thigh. "Why am I here?" She looks like she's waiting for an explanation. One comes to mind, and it makes Jake livid. 

"You're not some manifestation of guilt, I didn't do anything to feel guilty about." Is he trying to convince her, or himself? What does it matter, they're both the same thing, aren't they? She's something he conjured up in his head. 

"Yeah, because you didn't do anything," she reminds him, venomous. "Maybe that's the problem. Do the bare fucking minimum, just say you're sorry. Everyone says it."

"I don't have anything to apologize for," he snaps. Liz's eyebrows dance sardonically.

"OK, so how was my funeral, Jake?" His breath leaves his lungs in one whoosh. He can't answer that and she knows that, she knows because he didn't go. He'd been invited, a fact he'd hid from Jen and the kids. And a part of his brain told him he should go, pay his respects, and more importantly, to support Jim, who was his friend long before he was anything else, and who probably needed a friend. 

And then he thought about how it would go. He would arrive, in a dark suit, with Jen because she and Liz had met and she was sad to hear what happened. They would shake hands with her parents, her brother, tell them how sorry they were. Jake would spot Jim, and he wouldn't catch his eye. 

Jake would stand amongst the mourners and listen to the priest, but not hear him, his words sounding like he comes from underwater. There would be a eulogy, probably, maybe even more than one. The coffin would lower, and every member of her family would take a handful of dirt and throw it on the coffin. It would some kind of symbolism, one Jake can't remember. 

They would go to a house. Not Jim's, no. Zucker would probably offer his, as a conciliatory 'so sorry for your loss' gesture. People would gather, they would eat and they would talk and they would share memories of Liz Landers, beautiful and bright and gone too soon. Jake would have his hand on the small of Jen's back,  mostly silent, until he catches Jim's gaze. And Jim would leave. 

"Give me a minute," Jake would say quietly to Jen, who would nod understandingly, and then he would leave too, catching up to Jim outside just as he's unknotting his tie with a strangled sound, like it was choking him. Jake would stand behind him, fingers folded together, trying to think of something to say. 

"I -" Jim would cut himself off. Jake wouldn't be able to see his face, but he would know that there are tears in Jim's eyes, that he would look devastated. Jake would take a step forward. 

"I know it must be hard," he would say, even though he doesn't have a fucking clue. Jim would turn his head slightly, so that Jake could see his profile. 

"Elizabeth, she." Jake would clench his jaw. Because he would hear the amount of love Jim pours into one name, and it would ignite a storm of emotions in him. "27 year olds shouldn't die while people twice, three times their age get to live." Jim's voice would break, and Jake would grope for words. But even a perfunctory _I'm sorry_ , the thing everyone says at funerals, would be beyond him.

"Right." In his living room, away from hypotheticals, Liz shakes her head. Disappointed in him. "Think about that, Jake." 

 

 

 

He's managed to avoid Jim for much longer than he's ever avoided Jim, ever wanted to avoid Jim. He holes himself up in his office, he works late so he doesn't run into him on the way out, stays as far away from the White House as he can. When Jim guest hosted Sit Room, Jake stammered through the handoff and then bolted to the restroom to splash water on his face. 

"You're a coward," Liz told him. 

He's in his office again now, working on some final touches for Sunday's State of the Union. Liz is sitting in one of his spare chairs, humming The Lead's theme, as she has for the past twenty minutes. He asked her to stop once, she gave him the finger. 

When someone knocks on his door, Jake tells them to come in, and that's how Jim winds up in his office, handsome and tired looking and so out of place. Liz goes quiet. Jake tries not to look at her, but he is, and all he sees is her staring at Jim, and he doesn't think he's ever seen that amount of longing in someone's face before.

And Jake's seen some of the footage of himself when Jim used to correspond on The Lead.

"Hey." Jim's tone is normal, casual. Like nothing is going on. Jake sets his work aside, folds his hands together.

"Hey," he answers. "What can I help you with?"  Jim sits in his other free chair. Jake can't even look at him, not really, and sometimes his eyes dart over to Liz, though he doesn't really want to look at her either. 

It's a mundane conversation, work stuff, not unlike a thousand other conversations they've had before. The whole time, Liz is silent. Generally, even when he's talking with other people, she talks too. She monologues, she interjects, she comments, she tries to provoke a response out of him. Not this time. She's silent and any time he sees her, she's laser focused on Jim. 

He can understand that. If it didn't make him ache so much, he would stare at Jim too. Not move, not blink, just drink him in. 

Thank God he doesn't look like a dead man walking anymore. Because he did, in the immediate aftermath. And it hurt for Jake to see him like that, broken and defeated and feeling fundamentally unlovable. Now he looks healthy, and if not better than he's getting there. 

But according to whispers, he hasn't gone on a date. Hasn't even hooked up with someone. After he got divorced, his exploits were often and interesting enough that Page Six dedicated an entire article to them. Now, there's nothing. In the back of his mind, Jake wonders if he's ever going to let himself love again? In the back of his mind there's also an answer. 

The answer is no. He'll probably remain alone, forever, to honor Liz's memory. It seems like something he would do. Even if Liz, the real Liz, were she here, would tell him not to. Jim is loyal, he always has been. 

He stands, heads for the door, and actually gives Jake a small smile. God, he loves that smile. 

"Jim." Jim stops, turns around expectantly, like he's waiting for Jake to say something. Which he should, right? It's on the tip of his tongue. _I'm sorry_. He's sorry for what happened to Liz, he's sorry Jim's hurting, he's sorry he didn't go to the funeral, he's just so sorry. 

"Yeah?" Jake smiles genially. 

"Have a nice night." Jim nods. 

"Yeah you too." And then he's out the door, closing it behind him. Jake takes a deep, shuddering breath, curls his hands into fists. His nails dig into his palms. He focuses on Liz, who still hasn't talked. She has a hand over her eyes, and her shoulders are shaking. 

She's crying. 

Jake knows why. She's crying because she can't have what she wants. And what she wants is to fling herself in Jim's arms, to feel them wrapped around her. She wants to touch him, to kiss him, to tell him she loves him and hear him say it back. She wants to look at him and see it in his eyes. She wants to talk to him, she wants to be with him again. 

Jake knows it's what she wants because it's what he wants, it's what he's wanted for God knows how long. And Liz is crying because he can't. 

 

 

 

He's sitting at the Lincoln Memorial in the dead of night when she shows up, sits down beside him. There's wind, but it doesn't seem to be doing much to her hair. For a moment, they sit in silence, both staring ahead. Finally, it's Liz who speaks. 

"Why am I here?" She asks it like she already knows the answer. And maybe she does. After all, she's in his head. She is his head, as she reminded him. 

"Because it's not fair," Jake murmurs, so quiet his reply is almost lost in the rush of blood and the pounding of his own heart in his ears. "It's not fair that assholes who are fifty and older, who've done bad things and don't deserve a whole lot, that they get to live, and beautiful girls in love and only just reaching their potential have to die. It's not fucking fair." 

He forces himself to look at Liz. She's looking at him through long lashes, and her eyes are soft. It's more than he deserves, really. 

"Well." She spreads her hands. " _Life's not fair, is it?_ " He's seen The Lion King with the kids enough to know she's quoting Scar's first line. It's horribly apt, and Jake hates it. He hates a lot of things these days. 

"It should have been me," he rasps out. He waits for her to say something. Agree with him, or disagree with him. part of him wants her to disagree? 

But she can't. She's just a projection of himself, of his thoughts, of course she'd agree with him. Everything she's said are things he's said to himself. So Liz nods, she agrees. 

They stare out at the Reflecting Pool, at the lights shimmering on the water, and this time, neither of them talk. 


End file.
